Melee
by Kristen999
Summary: Nick gets into a barfight, but who is he really angry with? Nick and Grissom Friendship


Title: Melee

Authors: Kristen999

Category: Angst

Spoilers: None

Disclaimer: All rights belong to CBS and all their fine writers. Please don't sue. This is just for fun.

Summary: Nick gets into a barfight, but who is he really angry with? Nick and Grissom Friendship

Note:Based on George Ead's comment on a news story on CSIfiles where he commented that he would like to see Nick get into a bar fight and lose. How could I deny myself? or him? Thanks to Poncholives where we discussed this premise and each of us set out to write a story, with totally different outcomes. Kind of fun.

Thanks To Tinkerbell for all of her wonderful help and edits!

* * *

Nick barreled down the hallway, dodging lab employees left and right. His shoulders brushed by Hodges, who sneered at him under his breath. Just as he ducked past a tech, he almost ran into Sofia.

"Excuse me." He said curtly, and ignored her backwards glance.

It was late- no, it was REALLY late. Swing shift had blended into the chaos of Graveyard, but then again the clock had been ticking. The alarm blaring hours ago. The seconds from his case mounted all night, lost precious moments, every little obstacle multiplied by the littlest mistakes.

Misfiled labwork, warrants that he been screwed up, the wrong names printed on files. Nick felt that every thing had been stacked against him. His efforts slowed by the red tape of lawyers and bumbled efforts of the LVPD. He had no direction, no real motive for even still being at work. His cell phone had stopped beeping after he had switched it to silent mode. If Catherine had called him one more time for his "erratic" behavior on the case, he was going to snap the thing in two.

He had worked this case alone. Warrick had been pulled away by court duties. He had to testify on a case that he had worked on over two years ago. The slow process of justice as old and rusted as the building that housed the proceedings. His fellow coworker had been put through the wringer by expensive attorneys who tried to drag the reputation of the lab in the mud. The high priced lawyers called every greedy scientist onto the stand who to try to rebuke their collection just for an extra dollar.

Nick could still see Stacy Higgin's face, in his mind. Her screams of despair, her anger at the inability of them all to find the animal who murdered her daughter and put him behind bars. Their suspect was guilty as sin, caught dead bang if it wasn't for some typeo done by a clerk. Or the simplest follow-up by the detective assigned.

"Hey, Stokes!"

Nick froze in mid stride, his face pinched by the hostile emotions that caused the vein along the side of his face to beat erratically. That smug tone of voice grated on his ears.

"Stokes, I want a word with you."

Nick stood, back tensed up at the demanding tone. If the CSI had a mirror to study his reflection, he would see his pupils constrict, his eyes grow darker. He turned around despite the spasms that just locked up his neck.

He didn't acknowledge Detective Kelly. The criminalist knew that this only served to irritate the cop even more.

Detective Kelly and Nick Stokes had worked on cases before- always the same goal, even if they never saw eye-to-eye. Nick was a likable person, a friendly guy. He got along with almost everyone at the lab and with the LVPD. However, there was an exception to every rule.

"You had a lot of nerve breaking my balls back at headquarters. Especially when your people can't even keep up with blood samples," he seethed.

Nick put his hands on his hips and gave the other man a stern, even look. His feelings were just about to boil over, but he was keeping a tentative hold on the lid of his emotions

"One of the lab techs mislabeled samples, they've been backed up for days. They've---"

The volatile cop cut the CSI off. "Screw your excuses, Stokes. A bunch of lab rats, who can't handle a few test tubes, wrecked this case. You and your stupid little toys. They can't even keep track of key evidence against a child murderer."

Detective Kelly was breathing hard, his chest heaving.

Nick closed the gap between the two men. Kelly was a few inches taller and several pounds heavier. It was obvious he wasn't intimated by the criminalist.

"If you had bothered to spend two seconds reading over the warrant, you would have seen that the last name had been spelled wrong. All of the other physical evidence would not have been made useless." Nick said, each word louder as he spoke.

Detective Kelly pointed his finger at the CSI. "Don't try pegging that on me. For Christ sakes, I have over thirty cases. I'm out their on the street. While you have your eyes glued to some damn microscope." The officer laughed. "Damn civvies have one job. Now we can chalk up this as another case that slipped through our fingers. I have that bitch of a mother..."

Nick was moving before his brain processed what he was doing. He had gripped the other man's shirt collar and shoved him against the wall of the hallway. "She has a name! She had a daughter! Who is dead!" He said in between clenched teeth.

The other man had his hands on Nick's shoulders and tried to push the smaller man off of him with no luck. All of the CSI's fury was being directed at the officer, and he kept the man pinned.

"Nick, knock it off!"

The criminalist recognized that voice, but it didn't register with his frazzled brain. It wasn't till he felt anther set of hands gripping him from behind and forcibly dragging him back, that he realized who they belonged to.

Nick whipped around ready to tangle with this new enemy, when he saw the blue eyes of his former boss, staring at him in alarm. Grissom led him to a corner, as Detective Kelly screamed obscenities at the CSI. The outraged cop was being moved out of the corridor by other lab employees.

"What the hell were you doing, Nick?" Grissom asked, astonished by the other man's actions.

Nick shook loose of his former supervisor's hold. He shrugged off the hand on his shoulder. "Nothing. Just trying to clear things up about a miscommunication."

"Don't lie to me, Nick. You're not very good at it." Grissom replied, eyeing the small crowd of onlookers. A quick stare by the man sent everyone scurrying away.

Nick crossed his arms in front of him. "Just discussing a case," he said tersely.

Grissom fixed the younger man with a look. He wasn't buying this act. "What are you still doing here?'

Nick snorted. "I don't even know."

Grissom's expression now took on that disappointed look, the one that always used to bug the other criminalist. All it did now was make him angrier. "We had a case that was bungled by the start. Despite all the screw ups, all of my collection would have been fine. Except someone messed up on the warrant. Now Amy is going to get buried without any kind of closure."

Grissom wet his lips before speaking. "Who's Amy?'

Nick blinked. "What?'

Grissom sighed. Nick always hated it when he did that. More unspoken judgment on his professional abilities.

His former supervisor shook his head. "Is...Amy, your vic?"

Nick knew where this lecture was heading, knew the roadmap quite well. Instead of standing there to defend himself, or try to explain to his mentor his feelings on the subject. Nick laughed.

A small chuckle that only caused his ex-boss to look at him. With what? Pity?

"You know what, Grissom? You're not my supervisor anymore and I don't need to explain myself to you."

Then not allowing the other man to get a word out, Nick walked right past him and headed towards the exit. He didn't want to know what Gil Grissom was thinking. He wasn't in the mood to be dressed down, or to be dissected by that all so perfect analytical mind.

Nick Stokes, passed his locker room, and went straight for his SUV. He still wore his pale blue shirt, the word Forensics neatly labeled in the corner. He slapped on his hat with the same words printed. Instead of going home and relaxing, Nick steered his car towards a bar a few blocks down from the lab. He needed a drink- or two.

No deflating, no filing this away for another time. No, he was going to forget this night ever happened. No dead children, no cops, no disapproving looks. He was not going to be that guy- not CSI Nick Stokes. The Texan put his truck in park and wandered to the bar. He grabbed a seat on the stool and ordered a bourbon straight up.

* * *

Nick sipped on his beverage, allowing the liquid to burn a path down his throat. The CSI was never a heavy drinker. He usually settled for a few beers while out, or watching a game at home. He looked around the bar. There were a few guys along the counter, talking loudly. Nick ignored them as they argued among themselves. The place was mostly empty, except for a few other patrons scattered around. It was after all a Monday night, and getting late.

A television was blaring from the other side of the bar, a newsperson going on about how scorching temperatures were expected. Nick hated it when the desert heat wave consumed the city. It always meant they were bound to have a few more cases of kids killed in locked cars. He dreaded those, such a waste of life, by something so stupid and senseless.

The contingent of drunkards to his right were getting louder. Nick tried not to pay much attention to them, but his ears perked up when he caught wind of some of their comments.

A business guy was carrying on about his rash of speeding tickets. He cursed and insulted the police force for their laziness and corruption. One of his buddies was encouraging him along; adding his two cents about cops and their inability to protect citizens on a regular basis.

Nick felt the heat rise in his chest. Civilians never understood the amount of heartache and stress associated with policework while all on a meager salary. The services of the force were often neglected by the people they protected till things went wrong.

The criminalist tried to focus his attention back to the news reporter, but the woman was still carrying on about the safety of staying indoors.

He ordered another bourbon and drank it down thinking he could get a cab later. One of the guys who had been causing a ruckus with his buddies came over to the CSI.

"Hey man, you got a light?"

Nick peered up at the other man. He looked like some washed up accountant, dress shirt all wrinkled, tie loosened, hair all frazzled. His breath stunk of too much time in the dingy place.

"Sorry, don't smoke." Nick replied and turned his attention away.

The man stayed where he was and tapped Nick's shoulder this time. "Come on, man. All I asked was if you had a light. No need to cop an attitude or anything."

Nick didn't bother turning around to face the other man. "I didn't. In fact, I think I said in simple terms that I did not have a light." Nick said, his words dripping with sarcasm. He took another swing of the dark liqueur.

Now the suit tapped him. "Hey buddy, no need to be an asshole about it." The intoxicated guy wandered closer to the criminalist. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, yah jerk."

Nick spun around in his stool, his expression tight, his voice barely under control. "I'm minding my own business. Why don't you go back to your friends?"

The agitated man stared at the CSI, his eyes taking in his T-shirt and hat. An oily smile formed around his features. "You a cop?'

Nick shook his head and turned his attention back to his drink. He wasn't going to waste his time. Not when he could feel the heat of the liquid burn deep within him, not quite numbing his brain. Not yet.

"Forensics." The man said slowly, half way enunciating each syllable. "You're one of them lab cops. Playing around with chemicals and test tubes." He laughed loudly. "You're a science cop, the one who "digs for clues". He chuckled to himself. Then the guy looked over at his buddies who were watching with mild interest.

"Look, guys- we got one of them nerd police officers. The ones who dust for prints and go out with their magnifying glasses." The man's bitter laugh echoed in the near empty bar.

The suit stepped closer, shoving his face into Nick's personal space. "Goddam know it all with a badge. Think you're real smart?"

Nick didn't need to move, he let his eyes drift over, they connected with his instigator. He just let his glare burn over the other man. His body was now rigid, his grip tight on his glass.

The man let his eyes drift over the criminalist then back up. His voice low, and taunting. "You tough? You don't seem tough. Don't even carry a gun."

Nick didn't utter a word. He had left his service piece in the truck, no need to bring it in. It was a good idea at the time.

His tormentor must have gotten bored not getting the reaction he wanted. He meandered back towards his peanut gallery, muttering a derogatory word, summing up his feelings of Nick's inaction's. The CSI smiled. He just used the same tactics that he enjoyed on suspects. They hated it when you could provoke them, but not acting in the same frenzied way of their own behavior.

Nick should have paid for his tab and gone home. Except he stayed at the bar and stewed there. He listened to the cackles of those idiots. They insulted criminalists, disbarrarging the badge and all men in and women in blue. He ordered one more drink. He was just getting a buzz, not quite drunk. No, he would not allow himself to slip into intoxication just yet. The voice of the mother was still screaming at him.

Her voice was more painful to his ears then a bunch of assholes at a bar.

Then something happened, that only seemed to be the icing on his cake of misery. The stupid newscaster began her report on his case. The one with the dead little girl and the outraged mother. In the middle of it was a spokesperson from the LVPD, who had no problem telling the public that it was the fault of the lab, and not police procedures that led to the suspect getting off.

Nick allowed a deep growl. Sometimes the damn media were worse then criminals. Then there it was, Amy's mom crying and shaking on TV. Blaming the police, the lab for the injustice of the world. A picture of Amy in her ballerina suit. All smiles. It made Nick sick to his stomach.

He wanted to throw up right then and there. In fact he rose out of his seat to go to the men's room. He had no choice but to walk by the peanut gallery. Except the dumb guy in his dirty suit blocked his path. The guy's face was sweaty, his cheeks burned red.

"You part of all that? You help let that murderer get away, Mr. CSI?" He spat.

Nick could feel his body tremble. The jerk was now really pressing his buttons. He still didn't say a word. Nick just gave him a scathing look. Maybe ignoring the suit was the wrong thing to do.

"You like helping the bad guys? You must enjoy looking at dead little kids and spitting on their grave. You get a kick out of it, mister high and mighty?"

The suit moved forward, his face inches from his.

Nick was clenching his teeth, he felt the tendons in his arms stretch with tension. His face was grim. His friends might have seen his eyes get really dark now, never a good sign, but then again none of his fellow coworkers were around to notice this slight nuance.

Bad suit guy sneered. "You don't give a damn about that poor girl. I bet you're one of those guys who takes her picture home to jack off to."

Nick always heard the expression "seeing red". This was the first time he ever experienced it. Bad suit guy must have sensed this. Before Nick could do anything, the guy brought his fist up and slammed it into the left side of the CSI's face.

Nick couldn't recall the last time someone had decked him. He felt his jaw vibrate from the impact. There was some force behind it, but it stunned him for just a moment. His assailant's throw made him vulnerable. Nick grabbed the man's arm which was still swinging from the momentum. The CSI held the guy's left wrist and delivered a blow to bad suit's face. The criminalist's punch had more energy, and he saw the guy's head jerk backwards.

Nick kept Bad Suit's wrist in his possession and slightly twisted it. Enough to sprain, but not break. When the businessman yelped, Nick thought it might be over, but the intoxicated man tried to charge at the criminalist. Bad suit lunged at Nick's middle, wrapping his arm around him like a tackle dummy. Nick braced himself, with his feet planted on the floor. He didn't budge. Nick was an ex-football player and this jerk wasn't really doing it right anyway.

Nick kneed the man in the stomach, hearing his antagonist grunt in pain. Bad suit man let go of Nick's waist. Thinking quickly, Nick manuvered around the guy. The criminalist twisted Bad Suit's arm behind him, and pinned it there.

"We done, now?" Nick asked, breathless, his attacker now subdued.

The criminalist should have known better to have his back turned. He felt a hard jab to his right kidney. His hold on bad suit guy instantly loosened as he nearly lost his footing from the sharp pain from the surprise attack. Nick had neglected the buddy's friends.

Nick turned just in time to face a taller guy. Bad suit # 2 stood there, perhaps regretting the cowardly act of punching someone from behind. Nick's instincts took over and he grabbed the guy by his shirt collar, as he did when he charged at Detective Kelly, from earlier.

He was shoving Suit Guy #2 towards the bar, when he felt another punch to his back. Now, both his kidneys were screaming from a second round of abuse. Tall suit guy's shock wore off fairly quickly. Bad suit # 2's blue eyes clouded over in rage, and he punched Nick right in the throat.

Nick Stokes had been in his fair amount of scuffles and had endured his share of pain. However, what he felt right now was almost overwhelming. He let out a strangled gasp, his hands covering his throat by instinct, as a sharp pain shot through him from the impact. The wind was knocked out of him. At the same time, lightning, red-hot pain engulfed him.

For a few moments he sputtered, trying to take in huffs of air. The thought that he actually could be pretty badly injured never crossed his mind until now. His larynx felt like it had doubled in size suddenly, making him unable to swallow. Add to the fact that the bad suits were not going to allow him the luxury of crawling away to endure this agony.

He groaned inwardly in the hopes that his eyes might be deceiving him. But they were not. A third stupid accountant type man came up towards his right side and punched him right in the gut. Nick doubled over and struggled to breathe.

"You son of a bitch."

Nick didn't know who the voice belonged to in as he felt like drowning in a sea of misery and pain. However he recognized the main instigator who started it all. Suit # 1 grabbed Nick and pulled the bewildered CSI around by his shoulder. Facing the prospect of more pain, Nick elbowed the jerk in his ribs. Suit number one's moan was a satisfying sound to his ears. Nick was almost doubled over, but he was not going to let these jerks beat him down without a fight.

Except that might have been his last bit of defense. He was leaning forward dangerously, one hand to his gut, the other trying to protect his bruised throat. He felt a fist slam into the side of his head, and he fell to the ground. Nick was on his hands and knees, trying to inch away. Now the three bad guys were just a mob. Their hoots of triumph were just a fog of voices. Nick was disorientated by the last whack to the head. However, as he tried to move out of reach, he felt a terrible kick to his side. Followed by three more.

Two of the cronies were wailing on him, his ribs bearing the brunt of the attack. He heard the laughs, but the voice of the asshole that started this whole madness was nowhere to be heard. Nick tried to get away...somehow. Until he heard that taunt from earlier.

"Think you're tough now, asshole?"

Then, a miserable kick to his solar plexus.

"Through branches it controls many vital functions such as adrenal secretion and intestinal contraction. Popularly, the term 'solar plexus' may refer to the pit of the stomach. A blow to that area, if it penetrates to the true solar plexus, not only causes great pain but may also temporarily halt visceral functioning."

Nick's analytic brain was spouting off information on why he felt like vomiting, curling into a little ball and dying right there on some god-forsaken barroom floor. His vision began to gray from the sheer amount of agony. The CSI vaguely heard shouts from bystanders trying to corrall the trio of people beating the living hell out of him.

There was a vague awareness of a another scuffle. His brain thought that perhaps these maniacs were being pulled away by the bar tender or perhaps other patrons.

"This guy is a cop!" he heard through the dizzying pain.

Nick felt relief at that idea, but one of them- maybe the bad suit guy- just had to get one more parting blow. A kick to the side of his head that already pulsated with pain was the last thing he remembered before passing out.

* * *

He stood there staring at the lifeless body of Amy. She remained motionless on the slab. The blonde hair was in stark contrast to her gray skin. Nick stood over her, blinking. What was he doing here? He looked down at himself, noting his labcoat. He had a tape lift in his hand. The CSI stared at it questioningly. He looked back at Amy, but instead of a child draped by a sheet, she lay there on the metal in her ballerina outfit, a smile on her face. Nick backed away in confusion.

"Amy?" he asked hoarsely.

"Why can't you find the animal who took away my child?"

Nick spun in the direction of the desperate, angry voice. Amy's mother started screaming at the criminalist. She launched at him, punching him slightly in the chest. Screaming at the criminalist, Amy's mother launched at him, punching him weakly in the chest. Nick tried to calm her as he grabbed her flaying arms.

"You think you're tough?" a voice sneered at him.

The CSI didn't have time to react. He felt a sharp pain in his back, followed by a horrible pain to his gut.

Nick's eyelids felt heavy, weighed down by sandbags. As he began to recognize the signs and sensations of waking up, he groaned inwardly. It seemed every part of him ached, some areas much more than others.His mind felt fuzzy, like he was swimming in maple syrup. Every intake of breath was rewarded with a sharp pain in his side. Nick felt like someone had dropped several bowling balls on his chest, and he yearned for the nightmare-filled oblivion from earlier that night.

Nick felt the blackness descend on him again, but a slight noise caught his attention.

Was that a sigh?

The sound was so slight that he might have dismissed it, but it morphed into something more. Like a weight shifting. His curiosity got the better of him, and he forced his eyelids to open. They peeled back slowly as the room swam into view. Nick's skull felt as if someone had taken a jackhammer to it. When he shifted his head to one side, he felt his stomach flip. Fighting to keep his eyes open, Nick saw a figure sitting in the chair next to his bed.

Gil Grissom was reading a magazine, engrossed in the pages. Squinting in confusion, Nick shifted slightly on the bed. The movement caused him to hiss, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he rode out a wave of pain.

"Nick?"

The CSI thought he heard his name. He forced himself to open his eyes again and focus on that man in front of him.

"Yeah?" His throat felt like a tennis ball had been shoved down it.

"You're awake."

Nick blinked. Yes, he was conscious. Part of him didn't like it too much. The CSI sighed- why the hell was his ex-supervisor here and plainly stating the obvious?

Gil Grissom put away his reading material and scooted his chair closer to the bed, so he could talk to the patient without raising his voice.

"You had us pretty worried," the man said simply, as if he had just commented on the weather.

It took a few moments before Nick understand the meaning behind his words. "Us?" he croaked. It hurt so badly to talk.

Grissom allowed a tiny smile. "Sara and Catherine are with Jim down at the station. They have the three guys who did this and are filing charges."

Nick hated having a conversation this way. He tried to scoot up in the bed. A white hot pain shot through his belly and made him reconsider the idea.

"You should try to lie still. You're pretty banged up," Grissom told him, matter-of-fact.

Nick glared at him

"I sent Warrick to get some food. He kept tabs on you while he processed the scene," Gil continued.

Nick was still trying to adjust to the realization that he was rendered practically immobile. He let out a small growl. "Warrick's

got court tomorrow. He shouldn't have--"

"He wanted to. Warrick needed to keep occupied while we waited for you to wake up." Grissom shrugged. "He was really worked up."

Nick went to rub at his forehead, but when his fingers brushed against a large bump, he cringed. "Jesus. Those guys got me pretty good."

Gil's eyebrow arched up. "Concussion- you're lucky. They thought it was a skull fracture. Add that to several cracked ribs, contused kidneys, and a bruised larynx." The supervisor let his gaze drop to the floor. "If those guys had a few more minutes with you...well."

Gil didn't complete his sentence. He let the words hang in the air, his tone of voice back to the realm of disappointment. Nick absently rubbed at his sore side, the tug of the IV line pulling on his skin.

"Why are you here?" Nick asked before he had time to really understand why it mattered to him.

For the first time during their brief conversation, Gil Grissom looked slightly... uncomfortable. It was really Catherine's role to be here.

He was, after all, under her supervision. 'Didn't Gil Grissom have a scene to cover, or a crime to investigate?' Nick wondered.

"I can't visit a colleague?" Grissom asked.

"You have a shift to cover," Nick responded.

Grissom looked at his watch. "Not anymore."

Nick shook his head, confused. A new pain swelled inside his skull.

"You really shouldn't move around."

Nick bit his lip. At least for a second, he could focus on just that tiny bit of pain, instead of all the parts of his body that hurt. "I

know that," he hissed.

Grissom just sat there. He didn't look pissed, not emotional, no reaction. Nick didn't know if he expected one, but maybe part of him had. Had he hoped for one?

"Have you not gotten it out of your system?" Gil asked, using the same damn inflection in his voice he used to chastise people with. Mainly Nick.

Nick now moved up in the bed. The jarring of his beat-up body cost him. Big time. He gasped, yelping from the pain, but now he was sitting slightly upright. His breathing was short and rapid, followed by wave after wave of agony. 'Getting the shit kicked out of you in the solar plexus might do that to a person,' he mused darkly. He really did not feel like arguing while flat on his back.

Gil Grissom sighed. "Are you tired of fighting yet?"

Nick wrapped his arms around himself. "I didn't start it."

Gil stared at the criminalist before commenting. "Doesn't mean you weren't looking for it."

Nick closed his eyes again. Had he been looking for a scuffle? Did he secretly want to shed his skin as the always happy, always likeable Nick Stokes- the CSI who rolled with every punch, who let the horrors of his job trickle down like water off a duck's back?

Nick allowed those ideas to run free in his head, all the while wondering if his ex-boss knew exactly why Nick had turned to a dingy bar to blow steam. Seeking out trouble. He was a magnet for it sometimes.

"I just didn't want to be me for a while." Nick opened his eyes. Did he say that outloud?

Grissom looked at him with an all-knowing expression. Like a professor who patiently waited for his star pupil to finally realize the answer to some important riddle.

"Which do you prefer?"

Nick stared out in front of him. The silence of the room punctuated by his breathing and the beeping of a heat monitor. He licked his lips. "I'm not sure. I'm having a hard time finding the old one."

"It's not about being the old or the new. It's about knowing who you are now. Recognizing change. Accepting the imperfections, and being alright with them," Grissom said simply.

Nick allowed him a slight smile. "Is that what you tell yourself everyday?" Nick said as he turned to look at the other man.

Grissom cocked his head. "Not every day."

Nick sighed. Gil Grissom was quite comfortable with himself. To have that kind of confidence about one's skin was a truly a valuable commodity.

"I just don't want to lose touch with..." Nick painfully swallowed again. "I don't want to stop feeling."

Gil arched an eyebrow. "Detachment and emotions are separate issues. You know how I feel about your empathy sometimes."

"It doesn't get in the way." Nick saw his ex-supervisor give him an unconvinced look. "Feeling for familles and victims is a way to connect. A way to help get inside a case."

"Which led to your dilemma now." Gil sat straighter. "You wanting to forget who you are because you put too much of yourself in a case...in a victim."

Nick mulled over his coworker's words. "I won't lose myself in the job," he defended.

Grissom put his hand on the railing. "But are you still looking for something to help define you?"

"No, I think I'm done searching for that." Nick looked over at his supervisor. Grissom looked satisfied. It was obvious that he completely understood what Nick was talking about.

"I'm glad to hear it." Grissom nodded towards the other man. "You might want to get some rest."

Nick's eyelids were already getting heavy. He never thought that having a conversation could be so exhausting. He battled his

weariness, but he was worn out. "You can go home now," he said closing his eyes.

Gil Grissom nodded, even though the other CSI didn't see it. Then he reached down for his magazine and got comfortable for the rest of the night.

The End.

Thanks to George Eads for the plotbunny!


End file.
